


and i know i've kissed you before

by frougge



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Han Jisung | Han-centric, M/M, Minho is a Prince, also a faerie, jisung is kinda kinning robin hood, this makes some sense i promise, woojin gives jisung so many forehead kisses because i said so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-27 22:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20053552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frougge/pseuds/frougge
Summary: There are some, though, lingering at the forefront of his mind that he can’t assign a name to, that he can’t explain, that he doesn’t recognize. There’s the glitter of gold in the afternoon sun, the touch of metal on skin, stone eyes, ones that seemed more warm than anything else. There’s a boy, his age, maybe, though taller and more elegant and more quiet, staring at him from somewhere above, before taking his hand—and there it is, again, the touch of metal on skin.For some awful reason, the Prince reminds Jisung of it more and more, with each glance he gets of him.





	and i know i've kissed you before

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from pink in the night by mitski !! its v good and i recommend to have it on in the background while reading or just in general
> 
> before you start, just to clarify and make this a bit more understandable:  
\- woojin is like. eight years older than seungmin, hyunjin and jisung. he is their older brother figure and takes care of them ! generous king  
\- ummm this is set somewhere in the medieval ages or something idk  
\- this is not in a chronological order so it might be confusing
> 
> also . this is unbetaed ! but it should be mostly fine
> 
> there's a playlist for this au you can find [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7B7OAs8PxzQyXw7zaem1qU?si=lHugqLedS2GXeKj5YzNc1Q) , though itsmostly just songs i was listening to while writing this. most of them still fit into this general mood though !!

The myth of King Midas is one of Jisung’s favorites, amongst all the ones from greek mythology. It starts a bit like this: Dionysus, the god of wine and fertility and religious ecstasy and theater and countless more, finds that one of his dear satyrs, Silenus, has gone missing. Midas, upon finding and consequently saving that very satyr, entertains him for ten days straight before bringing him back to Dionysus. In turn, the god offers Midas a reward of his choice.

Midas wishes for anything he touches to turn into gold.

It brings him joy, at first. He revels in the way he can turn wood and stone and roses and everything available at his feet to gold, making it shine like a thousand suns. He rejoices in the way he becomes twice as rich with each touch, with each press of his fingertips to something new, and yet the illusion breaks over his head like glass when, in an attempt to feast, the food and drink he tries to eat transforms into the very metal in his hands.

In some versions of the story, his daughter is affected as well, turning as still as stone when he tries to comfort her. Jisung thinks he likes that more; he likes the implied imagery of it, of her skin cracking into gold, shimmering and glittering in the sunlight.

Regardless of whether his daughter is turned or not, the King recognizes that his power is not as much a gift as it is a curse. He asks, prays, begs Dionysus to take away what he had given him and Dionysus, ever so merciful, does. He tells Midas to wash all he has turned in the river Pactolus; that, he says, will rid him of the golden touch.

And so Midas does. He lets his power leak into the river, making the sand burn gold in the heavy sun, making the water seems almost metal at the right angle. Some say the sand still burns gold there, that if you were to touch the water, you’d turn into nothing more than a glorified metal, with little more life left in you.

Jisung wonders if that’s true.

.

The village Jisung grew up in was small and almost fully enveloped by the forest around it, which loomed tall and dark over all the houses. In it, the people were close to each other. He doesn’t remember much of it now, truth be told, but he remembers the way he used to run around the houses, laughter high on his breath, the way neighbors would drop by his house, to watch over him while his mother’s busy at work or to offer small goods and toys, and the way his mother would smile in thanks. She’d smile as if all the burden had been lifted from her shoulders, as if she could relax now, as if the bag full of potatoes or carrots or beets could fix every single one of her worries.

He doesn’t remember much of her now, doesn’t remember how her hair looked in the sun, how her eyes watched him, how her touch felt on his forehead, but he remembers that smile.

He wishes he could see it again, sometimes, all the time, in every waking moment of his day and as he sleeps, too, his mind not strong enough to brew up a picture of his mother.

(What he doesn’t remember is how his mother reacted differently to some of the people, the ones that would smile a bit too wide and would be a bit too nice and would have their eyes open a bit too much and would drop by a bit too often. What he doesn’t remember is one of the very first lessons his mother taught him, doesn’t remember how she was so very serious about it, her grip on his shoulders strong as she crouched in front of him.

“Never, never ever give your name to strangers,” she had told him and he’d squirmed under her touch, not liking the way she was holding him in place. “You hear me, Jisung? Promise me this. Promise me you'll never, ever give your name to strangers.”

“I promise,” Jisung had said.

“Repeat it,” his mother’s grip had tightened on his shoulders just then, the tips of her nails digging into his skin. “Repeat it, Jisung.”

“I promise to never give my name to strangers,” Jisung had said, making his mother sigh in relief. “Can I go now, mom?”

He didn't keep the promise.)

In the town he resides now, the people aren’t close to each other—or not in public, at least. Neighbors will drop by his home, will leave small packages with some food, will aid in case of an emergency (a twisted ankle, a shattered kneecap, a sprained wrist, a broken finger). The moment he enters the town to run errands, though, sent by Woojin, it ends; the people are more distrusting, more likely to sneer, to point, to steer clear of him as soon as they catch sight of the patches sewn dutifully into his jacket to cover the countless holes and tears. They turn their noses in the air when he can’t afford the produce he needs, coming a few coins short, and burn holes into his skin when he’s caught stealing.

He wonders what his mother would think of him, if she saw the way he was caught by the guards, once, twice, ten times, before they decided it was too much and he was to be taken to the dungeons. He wonders if her hands would twist in worry, or maybe in pity, or maybe in disappointment. He wonders if she, too, would turn her back on him, promising to never help him ever again.

It doesn’t matter what she’d think of him, what she’d do, not really.

.

His mother’s favorite myth was that of Hades, the god of the dead and king of the underworld, and Persephone, goddess of springtime and vegetation, daughter of the goddess of harvest and agriculture, Demeter. Hades fell in love with Persephone on first glance and asked Demeter for her blessing, which she denied him.

Thus, he decided to abduct Persephone.

While she was picking flowers, the earth beneath Persephone’s feet opened and out on a chariot flew Hades, quickly taking her back down to the underwood with him. Although at first Persephone had been reluctant and mourning her home back on the top of the earth, wishing only to return there, she was fed pomegranate seeds by Hades.

Pomegranate seeds, in this myth, were considered the food of the underworld. It was said that each time someone ate even one, they were to stay there, unable to leave, unable to live anywhere else.

Demeter was not pleased to hear this, to no one’s surprise. She threatened that, as a result of her despair, the people would not be able to grow crops on the earth, making it fertile, that this would lead to famine, to death. In order to prevent this, Zeus issued the final ruling: Persephone would spend half a year with her husband in the underworld and all the other months with her mother.

The months she spent with her husband were the same months Demeter grieved, causing the seasons to change, bringing forth autumn and winter. When Persephone returned to her mother, spring and summer came around, allowing the soil to become fruitful again.

“No,” Jisung’s mother had said to him, after he repeated the story to her. “You’ve got it wrong.”

“That’s how it was written,” he said, defensive already. “I’m only paraphrasing it.”

“No, no,” she patted the seat next to her. He sat down and her hands were gentle on his. “Persephone had wanted to go with Hades from the start; to rebel against her mother, to show she was more than just her daughter, more than Olympus wanted her to be. She ate the pomegranate seeds, knowing what they would cause. She was smarter than you give her credit for.”

“Why did she do that instead of talking with her mother about it?” Jisung asked, “you always tell me to talk to you before I make any big decisions.”

“That’s because you’re still a child,” she brushed back his hair and pressed her lips to the centre of his forehead, spreading warmth through his whole body. “Persephone was old enough to made her own opinions, a woman already. She went down with Hades on her own accord.”

Jisung wasn’t sure if he agreed but he nodded, anyway, and his mother smiled at him. Her thumb skid over the skin of his hand. “You’ll understand what I mean one day, I’m sure.”

(And he thinks he did, truth be told, when a few months later, he watched his mother approach the forest. She talked with someone—someone whose skin shone when they extended a hand towards her that she took almost immediately, and disappeared in between the countless trees and bushes.

She didn’t come out of the forest that day—or a day later, a week later, a month later.)

.

Jisung doesn’t remember what happened to his mother.

Woojin tells him not to worry about it.

.

According to the townspeople, the King is made of gold.

“His skin glitters in the sun,” he heard, some—most of the words floating over his head, some latching onto his ears as he was dragged along towards the town, away from the ruins of the village he’d been born in. “I haven’t had the chance to see him up close, but I _swear, _it’s like his skin is—is gold. I’ve heard it’s cold to the touch, too.”

Jisung thought that was nice. He thought it would be nice to be made of some metal, to have his skin be reflective; he’d be nothing more than a mirror of everyone around him, nothing more than something pretty to look at.

He thought he’d like that, that he’d like to be made of gold and be nothing more than a decoration, something to set up in the throne room to distract from all the injustices that take place there.

“Do you think he’s made from metal?” Jisung asked, when the trip was halted due to the nightfall, and Woojin was busy setting up places for everyone to sleep with the help of Hyunjin.

Woojin’s fingers stilled. “Who?”

“The King,” Jisung said and Hyunjin snickered under his breath.

“Don’t you have any better questions to ask?”

“No,” Jisung said, the lie escaping through his teeth easily as so many different questions spun around in his brain, with no hopes of being answered.

“Hyunjin,” Woojin said, his voice half between irritated and exhausted, “go help Seungmin tether the horses for the night.”

“But—”

“—Hyunjin,” Woojin repeated and Hyunjin sighed before relenting, pushing himself up and dejectedly walking towards Seungmin. Woojin gathered the blankets they had—not much—and dumped them on the ground, silent for a few moments before finally, he asked, “why are you asking about the King?”

“I heard the townspeople that are traveling with us talking about him,” Jisung said. Maybe Hyunjin had been right and this _was _stupid, he couldn’t help but think. “I was just curious, is all.”

“It’s just a myth,” Woojin said, though his voice seemed to waver, the same way it did when Jisung asked about his mother, when he asked about what happened to the village. “Just a tale people like us can entertain themselves with.”

“People like us?”

“Yes,” Woojin smoothed out the blankets, buying himself time. “People like us, with little to their name, with little fortune. People like us, who are looked down on by the King and the whole royal family, if you will.”

“Isn’t the King’s duty to care for us?” Jisung asked, his brows pulling together. He didn’t like the way Woojin sighed, deep and heavy and tired, as if he’d no life left in his lungs. “Isn’t it his duty to protect us? To make sure we are safe, to make sure we have food? He shouldn’t look down on us, should he?”

“It doesn’t matter what he should or should not do,” Woojin said, his fingers catching on Jisung’s hair. He ruffled it, gently. “It doesn’t matter, because the King and the royal family do not care for the good of the people.”

That Woojin was wrong about, Jisung thinks, after he’s brought to the castle, led down to the dungeons, to wait for his hearing, for his judging and then, finally, for his sentence. He sees the Prince, the current king—and it’s _his _skin that looks gold—and though his eyes are dark, there’s an aura of sadness, of pity, of regret emanating off of him.

He cares, Jisung thinks.

“That’s not how it should be,” Jisung said then, young and foolish and naive. He believed in the goodness of the world—believed that people were good just for the sake of it, that people acted like his mother, who took care of him when he was sick, or Woojin, who took care of him and two other boys—and still does—when their mothers were gone, nowhere to be found. “That’s not how it should be.”

Woojin was silent for a moment.

“Come here,” he said, finally, and Jisung obeyed. Woojin enveloped him whole in his arms, pressed a kiss to the top his forehead, smoothed down his hair, and Jisung closed his eyes. “We can’t change the mindset of the royal family, no matter how hard we try, but we can work on the way we treat each other. It’s important to treat people kindly, to help them in their time of need, whether it be by sharing food or your time or anything they might need.”

That’s something Jisung carried with him, stored safely at the core of his heart, all the way to the town, where the people were rude and turned their backs on him and twisted their noses high in the air at the sight of him. He carried it with him, promising himself to live by it, even if it got him into trouble, if it risked his health, his life; that, he thought, was unimportant.

He still thinks so, even as he sits on the floor of the dungeon, which is cold, mildly wet. It’s quiet until it’s not, with protests and screams reaching the ceiling, and he wraps his fingers around his cell bars as he waits his turn, as he waits to be brought face to face with the Prince.

.

That same night, as they were resting before another day of traveling towards the town, Jisung was to be sleeping closest to the woods. He was the only one not asleep; he could hear Woojin, Seungmin and Hyunjin’s calm breathing, slow and steady and almost in sync, and the way the horses seemed to be unsettled by something.

The closest one kept adjusting on her feet, making her hooves clack against the rocks, once, twice, thrice. Jisung turned away, trying to ignore her until the noise burned a fire under his skin and he couldn’t stand it.

He left the safety of the blankets, the safety of being in a group of people, of being away from the forest, to approach the horse. He pressed a hand against her side, smoothing down the fur.

“There’s nothing here that’s threatening you,” he told her, trying to keep his voice low and soothing. Woojin’s the best with horses out of all of them and he, more often than not, said that it was all in the voice used.

“They notice if you’re stressed,” he’d said, “if you’re anxious, if you’re worried, if you’re happy, whatever. You have to keep your voice calm, almost monotone. Give them a sense of security.”

It didn’t work, not this time. The horse still stumbled on her feet, emitting small whines, no matter how much Jisung tried to calm her, no matter how he spoke.

“What’s scaring you so much, huh?” If only he had a carrot or apple to give her, maybe it’d be better then. Unfortunately, they had only a little food and all of it was rationed for the rest of their passage. “Hey, hey, calm down.”

Her eyes—wide, unsteady, almost unhinged—kept glancing towards the woods, he noticed; with each glance, her state seemed to worsen and she only grew more nervous.

“Look, there’s nothing there,” he said, “I can go check, if you’re that worried.”

She was almost vibrating under his hand.

He patted her, one last time, before letting his hand slip off her fur, and he took a few steps background, facing her the whole time. “It’s okay, don’t worry.”

The woods nearly imprint himself on his back when he stepped inside and the horse only started moving more. He could feel leaves tickling his skin, the bark of trees under his fingertips, a mixture of grass and moss under his feet, and he turned around slowly.

There’s—there’s—

.

He only remembers waking up back under the blankets, tucked in safely. He doesn’t remember getting back from the woods, going to sleep, nor what he had seen in the woods. He thought—still does—that he’d seen something, almost remembers it, almost feels it prodding at the front of his mind, but.

(He doesn’t remember a boy, about his age, with cold skin and stone eyes and the way he glittered under the moonlight. He doesn’t remember recognizing the boy, either, smiling so much his cheeks hurt, falling into a hug easily, doesn’t remember being the happiest he’s been in a long, long time.)

.

In greek mythology, Icarus and his father, Daedalus, were imprisoned by King Minos of Crete within the walls of the Labyrinth. Daedalus was determined not to let this be the end of their story, and so he used his skills to make wings out of wood and wax. He gave a pair to his son, telling him to not fly too high, too close to the sun, as that would melt the wax and cause his death.

Icarus flew too high, anyway.

Jisung likes to think that details how he got caught and dragged to the dungeons nicely. Woojin takes on the role of Daedalus, having told him countless times not to steal, having told him countless time not to risk his life, not to risk his freedom.

Jisung, of course, is Icarus.

He could have stopped, of course. He could have foregone a number of meals instead to let the rest of those at home (Woojin, Seungmin, Hyunjin and now Jeongin as well, still a child) be able to eat more. He could have left, maybe, could have seeked asylum in the woods, could have tried to survive off the wild berries and flowers and everything else found in the deep of the forest.

He could have, he could have, he could have—but he doesn’t think that would have changed anything, not really, because—it’s as Woojin had once said, _we—all of those who live like us—matter the least in everyone's eyes_. It made no difference whether they’re all starving, whether none of them had food, whether they were able to afford medicine or not, to afford anything, not really, not when the royal family did.

It’s why Jisung thinks—swears—that it’s necessary to help those around them. It’s why he stopped stealing only for his family and started stealing for those near them, as well, extra potatoes and carrots and, rarely, meat, that couldn’t fill them, maybe, but could keep them fed, could keep them on their feet till the next day. It’s why he started stealing medicine as well, because one of their neighbor’s daughter fell sick. He took small doses at first, just for one child, until he was forced to take more as the sickness spread and the poverty they’re in prevented the people from seeking help in legal ways.

He truly strapped on Icarus’s wings when Jeongin got sick—when he kept being sick, for a week, then two, then three, and Woojin kept being worried in that quiet way of his, kept trying to grow something in one of the flower pots that he swore would help.

If only it grew, Jisung thinks. If only it grew and Woojin didn’t stare at his hands as if he’d been betrayed by some higher power, as if he’d lost some abilities he had before, as if, as if, as if—but it didn’t.

It didn’t and Jisung grew panicked, and allowed his less rational parts take reign of his brain and had been less careful, less stealthy, less smart.

It didn’t and Jisung got too close to the sun in an attempt to save the boy he considered a brother. It didn’t and the guards apprehended him with barely a fight—and this, this, stealing medicine, stealing more expensive medicine, was worse than stealing food.

.

(“You’re my Apollo,” Jisung said, high on something like love, maybe, something soft and delicate and worth much more than he’d ever be. “I think that’ll always be true.”

Minho shifted in his seat on the ground, his fingers stilling on the flower crown he was in the middle of weaving together. Jisung didn’t understand why he’d even be making one, considering he often complained of the silver one he was almost always made to wear.

“How so?” He asked, biting back a smile when Jisung reached for his hand. “Is it because I’m the sun? If so, the people want something a bit more original.”

“No,” Jisung said, though he thought, _yes, _when his eyes caught the way Minho’s fingers glinted in the sunlight. “Do you know what happened to Icarus?”

“Mhm,” Minho hummed, silent, and Jisung moved closer, pressing his lips to where Minho's neck connected with his shoulders. Minho squirmed, laughter on his lips. “Of course I know what happened to Icarus, you’ve told me ten times, now, probably.”

Jisung buried his nose in Minho’s skin, letting his eyes fall closed. His free hand lifted to shift through Minho’s hair, lightly, and Minho leaned into his touch.

“Icarus burns his wings because of the sun,” Jisung said, his voice barely above a whisper on Minho’s skin. “You’re my Apollo.”

“Thanks,” Minho said, “love hearing that I’m the reason you die, the reason you lose everything. That’s very nice of you, babe.”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Jisung shifted, hooking his chin on Minho’s shoulder, eying the slope of his nose, the way his lips lifted in a smile, the way his eyes wouldn’t leave the flowers in his hands. “Apollo—you—light the sky up for everyone. I just want to admire it. Admire you, even if it kills me.”

Minho froze.

“Jisung,” he said, slowly, setting the flowers down on the ground. “I—that’s not—that’s not as romantic as you think it is. You know I’m never going to put you in harm’s way.”

Jisung hummed against Minho’s shoulder, drumming his fingers on his hand. “It’s okay,” he murmured, “I mean, it’s already happening. The whole—well, you know. The way I can’t…”

“The way you can’t what?” Minho’s eyes met his, he grasped his hand, and Jisung felt the familiar buzz fly across his brain, wondering what it took this time. “Is—is something happening to you?”

He didn’t know, Jisung realized.

“No,” he said, forcing laughter out his mouth. The line of Minho’s shoulders relaxed visibly. “I was just playing around, is all. Of course nothing’s happening to me.”

“You’re the worst,” Minho said, letting his head rest on Jisung’s. He closed his eyes, his eyelashes rigid lines against the golden of his cheeks. “I hate you so much.”

“You don’t,” Jisung said.

“No,” Minho squeezed his hand, “I don’t.”)

.

The first time Woojin’d caught him stealing had been maybe a year after they settled in town, quickly finding that they could barely afford anything and what little they could was practically worthless, anyway. It’d been shortly after Jisung’s eyes followed the way Woojin’s hands would manage to take hold of an extra apple or two than he paid for without the merchants noticing.

“That’s more than you were to buy,” Woojin said, when Jisung set down what he’d gotten: a couple of vegetables, just short of three handfuls, maybe, and three apples. “That’s more than you could’ve bought, with the money I’d given you.”

Jisung rearranged a few potatoes on the table, set them in a neat little row. He stared at them, trying to decide whether he could lie his way out of this, whether Woojin would believe him, whether he’d let it go.

“I bought it,” he lied, the words slipping through his teeth and smashing onto the floor, shattering into a million pieces. It wasn’t entirely untrue—but, but. “The—the prices went down, I think, and since I still had some money, I decided to get more. If there’s any left-overs or anything, we can store them somewhere, I’m sure.”

“This isn’t about that,” Woojin said. Jisung’s heart was beating harder than necessary in his chest, pounding against his ribs, making him run of out breath. He wondered if Woojin could hear it. “The money we had would’ve barely been enough for a small serving, much less this.”

“The prices went down,” he insisted, again, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “It was enough.”

Woojin sighed, rubbing his temples.

“Jisung,” he started, finally, his voice more tired than irritated, more exhausted than annoyed. He took a deep breath, shook his head, before pulling out a chair and sinking into it, as if all his bones weighed more than he could lift. “Did you—did you—hm. You can tell me if you didn’t pay for all of this, you know? If you went ahead and—stole it, I mean.”

Neither of them were looking at each other and Jisung shut his eyes.

“I did,” he said, his voice wavering, his hands balling into fists. “I—I just, there was barely anything to eat yesterday, too, and—and—”

“—you don’t have to explain,” Woojin cut him off with, before he pushed aside one of the empty chairs and gestured towards it. “Sit down, okay?”

Jisung did as instructed, staring at his hands. Gently, Woojin took one of his hands, rubbing his thumb over it before he spoke.

“You don’t have to do this, Jisung,” he said, finally, “never do this again, okay? I’m to take care of you and you’re not going to risk your life doing—doing this. It’s not okay to risk your life doing this.”

“And it’s okay for you to risk yours?”

“More than it is for you to risk yours,” Woojin said, giving his hand one last squeeze before he stood up, pressing a kiss to Jisung’s forehead. “Don’t do this again.”

Jisung set his jaw, though he didn’t argue. He didn’t ask _why can you do it and not me? _or _I want to help as well, can’t you let me? _He didn’t say a word, though millions were prodding at the front of his mind, begging to be let out, seeking an answer, an explanation, _something._

“I won’t,” he said, finally.

That’s another promise he’s broken, now. He figures he doesn’t have a good track record of those.

.

Jisung doesn’t remember much from his childhood. He’s never been good at anything to do with memories, not really, but he can’t bring to mind one full scene that took place. There’s little short fragments, scattered around his head, little short pieces—his mother’s smile, Woojin’s hugs, the way Hyunjin would bicker with him for no reason at all.

Most of these he can explain; with enough prodding, he gets Woojin to tell him some tidbit about his mother, can still have Woojin hug him—_could _still have Woojin hug him, back when he hadn’t been caught—and could still have Hyunjin argue with him back home, albeit more fondly than before.

There are some, though, lingering at the forefront of his mind that he can’t assign a name to, that he can’t explain, that he doesn’t recognize. There’s the glitter of gold in the afternoon sun, the touch of metal on skin, stone eyes, ones that seemed more warm than anything else. There’s a boy, his age, maybe, though taller and more elegant and more quiet, staring at him from somewhere above, before taking his hand—and there it is, again, the touch of metal on skin.

For some awful reason, the Prince reminds Jisung of it more and more, with each glance he gets of him.

.

Even as Jisung waits to be judged for his crimes, to be assessed for what he’s done, he’s not too nervous. It’s not the first time he’s been caught, after all—won’t be the last, probably, either.

The first he’d gotten caught had been shortly before the King died, when Jisung had been edging into fifteen, had finally managed to wrap his head around the fact that they didn’t have enough money for anything, truth be told, no matter how much either of them worked. It’d been even harder then, because Woojin had taken in Jeongin, who was small and tiny and with nowhere else to go, and resources were spread even more thin.

The portions at their table became even smaller than they had been before, but neither could complain, even as their energy seemed to drain faster and faster with the passing days, and so Jisung turned to stealing.

He’d tried to steal too much a few weeks in and the merchant caught him by the wrist, wasting no time in reporting him to the guards. He’d been dragged to the dungeons, just as he was now, and dumped into one of the cells.

His neighboring cellmate—Changbin, Jisung faintly remembers—had been quiet for the first day, then restless the second.

“So,” he said, after they exchanged names, wrapping his fingers around the cell bars that keep them apart. “What’re you in for?”

“Stealing,” Jisung scoffed, letting his legs fall in front of him, stretching down to touch his knees. He’d been sitting down for far too long and his bones and muscles and organs and every single atom in his body seemed eager to atrophy, though he’s not too into the idea. “Trying to feed my family. That sort of thing.”

Changbin nodded. “Ah,” his fingers tapped on the bars, now, filling the dungeons. They were emptier then than they are now, Jisung thinks. “Hardly a crime, then.”

“What about you?” Jisung asked, remember what his mother and Woojin, in near equal measures, taught him about common courtesy. “What are you rotting in here for?”

“There’s a pretty long list,” Changbin said. His fingers stop tapping the bars before they let go completely, and he twisted his hands together. Nervous, maybe.

“We’ve got time,” Jisung said and, for the first time since he’d been caught, he smiled.

.

(“There’s a boy,” he said, somewhere long into the night, thinking of Minho, thinking of the way his fingertips brushed against the top of Jisung’s hand, nearly freezing and burning it at the same time. “I mean—I think there’s a boy.”

“Well, there either is one or there isn’t, no?”

“You know what I mean,” Jisung said with an over-exaggerated huff, rolling his eyes at Changbin’s small laughter, one that sounded almost delirious in the near empty dungeons. “I don’t know if it’s—if it’s reciprocated, I mean. What I feel.”

“You won’t know until you ask,” he pointed out, “or confess, I guess. But—do you think it’s reciprocated?”

“I,” Jisung paused, running every meeting with Minho through his mind. “Maybe,” he settled on, “maybe.”

“Then confess,” Changbin said, “you have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

“What if he doesn’t feel the same?” Jisung asked, turning to his side. Changbin was sitting close to the bars, his head turned to stare at the way water trickled down the wall, and Jisung outlined his profile with his eyes. “What do I do, then? I lose a friend.”

“If he’s your friend, you won’t lose him with admitting you like him,” Changbin said. Thunder rolled over the skies outside, almost in rhythm to Changbin’s incessant tapping. “I’m serious. When you get out, tell him. Promise me that.”

“Why should I promise you that?” Jisung said, more joking than anything else, but Changbin turned to him with his eyebrows raised, unimpressed.

“Don’t you want to know, at least?” Changbin said, “this’ll give you some motivation, maybe. Some drive to do it. Some courage, I guess? And if we meet here again, you’ll at least have done something.”

“If we meet again, it’s outside of here.” Jisung dragged his finger across the dungeon floor in the shape of the letter M. “This is a terrible meeting place.”

Changbin hummed and Jisung sighed, mock annoyed.

“Fine,” Jisung said, “I promise I’ll tell him, if I get out and see him—”

“—_when _you get out,” Changbin corrected.

“When I get out and see him,” Jisung said, “happy now?”

“Extremely.”)

.

Jisung was never a big fan of crowds.

He doesn’t mind noise—he’d go as far as to say that he revels in it, even—but crowds push him over the line. He’d discovered that when Hyunjin and Seungmin dragged him to the annual parade in celebration of spring that went through town, including the King’s carriage and all. Jisung still thinks it’s mostly a way to display the King’s wealth, what he has the money for, what he can organize, but at the time, Hyunjin’d seemed so excited and he wanted to do anything but burst his bubble.

“Can you see anything?” Hyunjin yelled into his ear from where he was half hanging on Jisung’s arm, half on Seungmin’s shoulder, standing on the tips of his toes to see over the sea of people in front of them. Jisung didn’t bother, resigning to his shitty view. “Oh! Oh—there he is!”

“There _who _is,” Jisung groaned, though instead of answering, Hyunjin just whooped loudly along with the crowd, once, twice. Jisung shoved him in retaliation.

“The King,” Seungmin filled in and, once more, Jisung hated being the shortest out of the three of them. “It’s nothing special, though,” Seungmin continued, “just a carriage, decorated in gold and flowers—you can barely see the King really. The horses are nice, though. Woojin’d like them.”

Hyunjin yelled something else, but it was unintelligible. Jisung looked to Seungmin for a translation but Seungmin just shrugged, hopeless, and Jisung decided that was it.

He clapped Hyunjin on the shoulder, lightly touched Seungmin’s hand, “I’m going home,” and turned into the crowd behind them, shouldering his way out of the main road. It’d been a year since they moved here after their village was destroyed, and he was fairly acquainted with the town, knowledgeable of some of the hidden pathways and secret turns, and he took them freely then. As soon as he reached the beginning of the forest, it was easier to breathe, easier to exist, maybe.

The woods had always been one of his favorite places to go; they reminded him of the village he grew up in, of the animals that would stumble their way near, of how serene the trees at the edge of the village looked sometimes, in spring, when the sun lit the way inside. After his mother was gone, Woojin used to take him there, to a clearing past countless tress and share some stories he knew with him.

Jisung learned about King Midas from him, after all.

The forest, then, was quiet—at least in comparison to the town. There were still birds chirping somewhere in the distance, the noises of bugs, hidden in between blades of grass, and other blunt sounds of nature, only amplifying themselves with each step Jisung took. He stopped only once he reached a clearing, finding a fallen log to rest on.

Jisung wasn’t sure how long he sat there, doing nothing but letting his thoughts float all around in the empty space around him, before he heard a branch crack behind him. He turned around and—and—

(—and he met a boy made of gold, made of the forest and nature and magic and everything in between, for the third time.)

.

(After he was let out of the dungeons, his feet took him almost immediately to the forest. The trees loomed tall and dark over him, but they weren’t threatening; they were inviting, almost, as he fell to a stop at a clearing.

He should be going home, he thought, to Woojin and Seungmin and Hyunjin and Jeongin who must have all been so worried, who must have all been so stressed about whatever happened to him, but he needed to do this first, he was certain.

He needed to do this first, or he’d run out of courage.

“Jisung,” he heard and he couldn’t stop the smile that pulled at his lips despite his exhaustion. He felt fingers at his temple, brushing his hair, before his head was pulled onto Minho’s lap. “What’re you doing here? Weren’t you just—”

“—yeah,” Jisung said, letting his eyes open, taking in Minho for the first time in what seemed like months, but had been just a few days. He looked just as beautiful as always, his hair soft, his eyes kind, his skin shining. “I missed you.”

Minho blinked at him, his mouth twisting. “Oh,” he said, his fingers dipping into Jisung’s hair, shifting through it slowly. Silence fell over them for a moment before he spoke again, “I missed you, too.”

“I have—I have something to tell you, too,” Jisung said, after he’d decided he’d been reveling in Minho’s touch, in the comfortable quiet between them for too long. His heart sprung into action, beating at least ten times faster when Minho cocked his head to the side, confused.

“Well, what is it?”

Jisung sat up, slowly, and Minho’s eyebrows drew together. He swallowed, slowly, toying with his hands, and Minho set his own on top of Jisung’s, in an attempt to steady them.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Jisung said, slowly. He eyed Minho’s face when he remained silent, getting more and more nervous with every second, but Minho simply squeezed his hands.

“About time,” he said, “I think I’ve been in love with you since forever.”)

.

The King died when Jisung was just short of seventeen, just short of being almost an adult, just short of being the age Woojin was, when he took him and Seungmin and Hyunjin under his wing. Jisung had been one of the few to find out early about the death.

He’d been out, to buy food, and just as he’d tried to subtly whisk an apple into the pocket of his jacket, thinking about Jeongin and the way his entire face immediately brightened the last time Seungmin offered him one, a passerby grabbed his shoulder, her grip strong, her fingers digging into his skin.

(It reminded him of his mother.)

“Have you heard?”

He swallowed. He couldn’t get caught, not again. “Heard what?”

“About the King,” the woman said, her voice teetering between grieving and exhilarated, as if she couldn’t decide. “About what happened to him.”

“About what happened to him?” The merchant echoed, loud and booming into the filled town square, attracting the attention of countless others there, and Jisung’s shoulder sagged.

The woman blinked, tilted her head, and, with her fingers letting go off Jisung, said, “the King is dead.”

Jisung’s eyes felt as if they could bulge out of his head and he dropped the apple back into its basket, his feet carrying him home. He doesn’t remember the way home, now, but he knows he ran fast, faster than he should have, maybe, making his heart feel like it was going to fall right out of his throat when he stumbled to his front door, pushing it open with what little strength he had left.

He would have fallen right onto the floor immediately after doing so if not for Woojin, who caught him by the elbows, his grip just strong enough to keep him on his feet but otherwise gentle.

“Calm down,” Woojin said, when Jisung had tried to let the news spill from his lips, leading him to sit down on the steps in front of their home, “calm down. Hold on, let me bring you something to drink, and then you can tell me what happened, okay?”

Jisung nodded, helpless, and Woojin patted his shoulder before pushing himself up. He came back a moment later, a glass of water, and Jisung accepted it readily.

“The King,” he said, finally, after taking a sip. Woojin’s hand was still on his shoulder as he waited for him to continue. “The King, he’s—he died, according to the townspeople.”

“I know,” Woojin said. He was silent for a few moments before he added, “I heard about it, earlier, when I was working.”

Jisung nodded. “What does this mean?” He asked, his voice almost nervous. “What happens after this?”

(He was thinking of a young boy, his age, made from the woods and gold, with soft hands and a warm touch and a kind heart.)

“The Prince’ll take over,” Woojin said, “when he’s of age, I mean. right now the Queen will rule in his place, as Queen Regent, until he’s of age.”

“And what happens with us?”

(_What happens with everything that’s between me and him? _He wanted to ask, so desperately.)

Woojin looked up at him. His eyes looked so tired, nearly drained of everything, nearly, empty, but he managed a smile as he swung an arm over Jisung’s shoulders, pulling him closer and pressing a kiss to his temple.

“I’m afraid we—not just us, either, but all of those who live like us, in the same conditions, lacking the same things—we matter the least in everyone’s eyes, in this case, Jisung.”

.

He’s in the dungeons for maybe three days—maybe more, maybe less, but time passes in a peculiar manner here—before he sees Changbin again. Almost as a show of fate, he gets pushed into the cell next to Jisung and he falls with his back flat against the floor, looking exhausted.

“Changbin,” Jisung says, incredulous, once the guards have left. “You’re in here again?”

Changbin’s head lifts and he locates Jisung almost immediately, a smile stretching across his face. He wastes no time in pushing himself up and going up against his cell bars, his fingers twisting around them.

“I could say the same about you,” he says. “You said if we meet each other again, it’ll be out of here.”

“I might have been wrong about that one,” Jisung admits, sheepish. “Next time, maybe.”

Changbin laughs, though it lacks the carelessness he held on his shoulders the last time they met. “We’ll see about that,” he says, before he sinks to the floor and Jisung does the same. “What about that boy?”

“Hm?” Jisung asks, tilting his head.

“That boy you told me about last time we met,” Changbin says, his brows pulling together. Jisung tries to think of any boy in his life he could have told Changbin about. He’s almost certain it was Jeongin when Changbin adds, “the one you were planning to confess to?”

“Oh,” he says, though he’s got no clue what Changbin’s on about. “I—um, yeah, it didn’t work out.”

“That sucks,” Changbin says, a sigh marking the end of his words. “Well, we might as well get on with the usual—what are you here for, now, anyway?”

.

(The King had died, the King had died, the King had died and Minho was to be coronated in a matter of weeks, and Jisung couldn’t stop thinking about him, worrying whether he was okay, worrying about how he was feeling, until he found his way to the clearing in the middle of the woods, almost on accident.

Minho was there, as always.

“Minho,” he breathed, the name almost a prayer on his lips. “God, are you—are you okay?”

“I will be,” Minho said and Jisung opened his arms. He hesitated before letting Jisung envelope him whole, burying his face in Jisung’s shoulder as his fingers dug into the back of his shirt. “We weren’t that close, really, and I just…” he trailed off and Jisung rubbed his back slowly.

“It’s okay,” Jisung said, “he was still your father. You don’t have to be immediately okay after this, you know. It’s—not wrong to feel bad.”

“It’s not that,” Minho murmured, before he pulled away. His hands smoothed down Jisung’s jacket along his shoulders before he settled on holding Jisung’s hands, tight in between his own. “I—I’m to get coronated, in a few months. Maybe later.”

“Isn’t your mother to rule for you, before you turn eighteen?” Jisung asked, “you’ve still got a couple of months, no?”

“It’s—I have a lot more duties, now,” Minho said, “I—I don’t think I can do this, anymore.”

“You’ll get through this, I promise,” Jisung said, his thumb rubbing Minho’s skin. “It’s—just a rough period, but it’ll be over, and things will get easier—”

“—no, Jisung,” Minho said, “I don’t think I can do—this. I don’t think I can be with you, anymore.”

Jisung swallowed, trying to ignore the way his heart sunk in his chest, the way it disappeared under his bones, the way it threatened to break. “I—God, I—don’t, don’t you want to try?”

Minho wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“I can’t,” he said and his voice wavered, and his hands almost shook, and Jisung could see tears forming in his eyes. “It’s—I just, it’s not possible. I’m sorry.”

It sounded rehearsed, to Jisung’s ears, and he wondered if someone found out about this, maybe. If someone was forcing Minho to do this. If it was the case—even if it wasn’t—Jisung wasn’t going to make this any harder than it has to be.

He’ll let Minho go.

“It’s okay,” Jisung’s thumb continued to rub circles on Minho’s skin, almost in a feeble attempt to connect the two of them together till the end of time. “It’s—I understand.”

His eyes followed the slope of Minho’s profile, trying to memorize every single fragment of him, trying to remember it later, trying to burn it into his memory. He hoped he would remember what this felt like, that it wouldn’t be one of the things gone, one of things he couldn’t picture anymore.

“I do love you,” Minho said, finally meeting his eyes. “I do, I do, I swear, and I always will, please—please remember that, it’s just—I—this is—you know—”

“—you don’t have to explain,” Jisung said. “I know.”

Minho swallowed, one last time, before he moved closer, pressing a kiss to Jisung’s temple. His fingers lingered on his jaw and, just before he left, Jisung felt the all too familiar buzz travel through his mind, and he let his eyes fall closed.)

He woke up in a clearing in the forest, alone, with no clue how he found his way there. His head was pulsing, making him unable to think, and he pressed a hand to it to try and make it better before he looked around him, trying to find any reason he might have ended up here.

(He’s unable to spot the boy still watching him from behind one of the trees, making sure he left the woods whole, safe, trying to hold back his tears.)

.

Changbin’s got plenty of stories to keep him entertained, even though the wait is long and any hope he might have seems to be dwindling down, the longer he waits. He tells him about some boy he likes, one that’s a bit taller than him with constellations sprinkled across his skin, with a warm gaze and soft hands, one that is much too kind. One that makes Changbin feel a bit unsteady on his feet, one that makes his heart spin in circles in his chest, one that Changbin swears he’d bring the stars, the moon, everything in the sky down for.

“You’ve got to tell him that, then,” Jisung says, and though he doesn’t see Changbin, he can feel him laugh against his back, feels his whole body almost shake. “You’ll tell him, okay? Once you get out.”

“_If_ I get out.”

Jisung twists his hand to grab onto Changbin and give him a reassuring squeeze, the way Woojin had, more than once. “We went through this last time we were here, you know. It’s _once_ you get out, no question about it.”

Changbin barks out a laugh, again, though it’s a bit shaky.

“Fine, then,” he says, and his voice is unsteady as well. Jisung squeezes his hand once more. “I’ll tell him once I get out, I promise.”

“If you don’t follow through with it,” Jisung says, interrupted only by the opening of doors—guards coming by, to bring whichever poor soul up to face the Prince, to face the consequences of their crimes, “I’ll—I don’t know, beat you up or something like that. You’ll see.”

“I’ve got to do it, then,” Changbin says. “And—if we make it out,” Jisung squeezes his hand again, “_once _we make it out, I mean, I hope I’ll see you around.”

“You make this sound like goodbye,” Jisung says, gritting his teeth in an attempt to stop everything from leaking out of his eyes. He closes them, too, tries to soothe down the speed of his heart.

“I’m afraid it is,” Changbin says.

“Han Jisung,” the guard interrupts, his words punctuated with the ringing of his keys as he unlocks his cell door, “it’s your lucky day.”

.

Jisung first saw the Prince when he was seventeen and the Prince was freshly coronated—no, it was when he was sixteen and he got used to meeting a boy at the edge of the woods, with soft fingertips, with a loud laugh, a smooth voice, and—

When he was thirteen and got caught stealing, and caught a glimpse of a boy who looked like he belonged to the forest, and they shared a smile and—

When he was twelve and just saw his first parade, and went to the forest and found a boy there, with wide eyes and a kind smile and soft hair and—

When he was nine and Woojin was taking him and Seungmin and Hyunjin to town, after his home was left in ruins, and they stopped for the night, only for Jisung to find a boy standing in the middle of the forest and—

When he was seven and still lived in the village, and he’d wandered off to the edge, to peek into the woods despite his mother telling him that he shouldn’t, and a boy stumbled out from behind a tree at him, eyes wide and skin gold and—

.

Jisung first sees the Prince when he’s barely twenty and brought to the throne room, standing in the middle of it, with his head hung. The Prince is sitting on the throne, almost sprawled out on it, while the guard lists off his offenses.

There shouldn’t be as many as there is, but.

“Leave,” the Prince says. His voice is steady, almost monotone, and Jisung watches the way his hands move, the way they catch the sun and his skin looks almost the same as the rings decorating his fingers.

The guards do as instructed and it takes no longer than a minute for the Prince to slip out of his seat, slowly, his long billowing clothes following him as he approaches Jisung.

“Look up,” he says, gentler than before, and Jisung does so.

The Prince is looking at him—and it’s jarring, almost, to see him this close, to realize that they’re the same age, to see the way his skin shines, the way his eyes look like stone. It’s jarring, almost, because in that moment, Jisung swears that the Prince is made of gold.

“Do you remember me?” The Prince asks, tilting his head. His fingers are cold on Jisung’s skin where he touches the side of his face, his cheek, his jaw, before his hand drops down to his side. “Do you?”

Jisung’s not sure of the answer.

“No, your highness,” he says. That’s something of a lie, maybe; he remembers a similar featherlight touch across his collarbones, a soft press of fingertips to his cheek, a boy smiling against his lips in the middle of the forest, almost, but none of the pictures seem to connect in his mind.

Realization flickers against the Prince’s cheeks and he slumps, almost, his whole body seeming to weigh more than before. He touches Jisung’s hand, lightly, gently, and Jisung feels a strong sense of déjà vu wash over him.

“I hope you remember one day,” the Prince says, before he lets go off Jisung and steps away, before he summons the guards to lead him away, to let him out of the dungeons.

That’s the last he sees of the Prince.

.

(Jisung met the Prince when he was seven and still lived in the village, and he’d wandered off to the edge, to peek into the woods despite his mother telling him that he shouldn’t, and a boy stumbled out from behind a tree at him, eyes wide and skin gold. Jisung had stuck out his hand, then, maybe foolish, maybe naive, gave a toothy smile and introduced himself.

“Han Jisung,” he said, his hand held out in the air between them, all the lessons his mother taught him already forgotten.

The boy in front of him, maybe foolish, maybe naive, maybe not aware of what he could do, took it all the moment he accepted the hand. “Lee Minho,” he said, taking for a price the memories Jisung held closest to his heart.

That’s the price he took each time, with each meeting, until the very memory of Minho, of the Prince, of the current King, withered away, till it disappeared into nothingness.)

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed !! 
> 
> if you're a bit confused about what happened , same . however the main idea is that: minho's a faerie and when jisung first introduces himself to him, he gives minho power over himself. minho in particular has the power to affect memories--he takes away jisung's memories when they interact, every so often. anyway basically what happens is: jisung first sees minho when he introduces himself to him, then when he and woojin and the others are moving in the night, and then again once he lives in the town and keeps stumbling into the forest. as they interact more and jisung falls in love, minho takes more of his memories as a "price" if you will (memories as in what happened to his mother, what his mother looked like, what the people were like in the village, etc), until he finally takes away all the memories jisung has of him. 
> 
> throughout this, minho has no clue this is happening; jisung figures it out at one point, though he doens't tell it to minho because hes afraid minho will push him away. the reason minho breaks up with him when he gets coronated is because a) he is coronated and b) he figures it will be easier to push jisung away now and hopes it will end up not hurting him. 
> 
> also, woojin was meant to be implied to be a faerie/something as well--the reason jisung doesnt remember where he came from is because he came from the woods, was "sent" to jisung in place of his mother. his mother was taken by the faeries--offered her name and was trapped in the forest, in the same way persephone was, however it was of her own accord; she wished for a life free of responsibilities, and she got one with the faeries. also minho is said to be "made of gold" because of how faeries have a more ethereal look to them that distinguishes them from others or w/e. 
> 
> OH forgot to write this earlier BUT : all the scenes in parentheses are what jisung forgot, what minho took as a price.
> 
> ANYWAY. i hope this made some sort of sense ! also come say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/frouggyu) !!


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